WakeUp Call
by Flywoman Returns
Summary: Wilson finally wakes up. Missing scene from 7X22 "After Hours." House/Wilson friendship.


It's still early, but he hasn't slept well all week, ever since Remy told him about the experimental muscle regeneration drugs and House shattered the protective glass on his favorite poster. He still winces whenever he thinks of House in that moment, the heavy cane in his upraised fist, the cold, deliberate rage in his eyes. For the first time in their long and tumultuous friendship, he'd feared being physically attacked by the taller man, and for what? For caring enough to try to figure out what reckless new behavior he had been hiding? Is the compound House is taking causing neurological symptoms he can't detect himself? Later on his friend had seemed back to normal, but how long would that last?

By now he's in desperate need of rest, but he still sits weighing the capsule in his palm for a few moments as he ponders. He uses this prescription very sparingly, knowing how addictive sleeping pills can be. He's also reluctant to relinquish that much control over his consciousness, even on a quiet night like this one. He'll be dead to the world for eight hours, deaf and dreamless, not even waking with the sudden involuntary movements that will startle Sarah off the bed.

In the end, though, he's exhausted enough to cave. He sets his phone on vibrate before placing it on his bedside table, swallows the sedative with a glass of water, and crawls wearily between the sheets.

Wilson wakes to a low-level buzzing near his ear. It's his cell phone, Cuddy's smiling face belying the alarming circumstances that would explain such an early call. He props himself up on his elbow, fumbling for the phone with one hand and rubbing stubborn sleep from his eyes with the other. "Hello?"

"Wilson." Her voice sounds strained; he suspects that she's been crying. "I've been trying to reach you for hours."

"I… didn't hear the phone," he mumbles, cursing his fogged brain. "What's wrong?" Even as he asks, a wave of anxiety crashes over him, and he wonders whether he is about to vomit. He knows without being told that it has to be House. Either he's hurt himself or he's hurt someone else, and Wilson doesn't even know which would be worse.

"We're at Princeton General. He tried to operate on his own leg, alone, in his apartment."

"_Jesus._" Now Wilson sits all the way up, yanking the comforter away from his bare legs, and swinging his feet to the floor. "Is he all right?"

He's pulling off his boxers one-handed as Cuddy says, "Calm down, he's fine for now. Apparently this experimental drug he's been using stimulated tumorigenesis in his thigh, and he was trying to remove the growths. I got him into surgery, and they think they've excised all of the tumors cleanly and repaired the damage."

Wilson sinks back down on the bed, almost dizzy with relief. "When can I see him?"

"He's sleeping now. But I'm sure he'd be happy to see you when he wakes up." There's that strain in her voice again. "It shouldn't even have been me. He called you first."

"I didn't hear the phone," he says again, lamely, feeling worse than ever. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

He has never gotten dressed so quickly. He brushes his teeth and runs a comb cursorily through his hair but skips the shower and the shave.

Five minutes after hanging up with Cuddy, he is in the car.

It's all he can do not to spend the drive beating himself up mentally. His phone log confirmed that House had called him less than an hour after he'd gone to bed, and there were three voicemails from Cuddy, each more urgent and less cryptic than the last.

He knows that House wouldn't have called him until he realized that he couldn't handle things alone. He wouldn't have been able to stop him from attempting the excisions; he might even have gotten roped into materially assisting in a way that Cuddy, not qualified, would not. But still it eats at him.

Because he should have suspected that something like this was going to happen. Because he shouldn't have backed down last week when House rejected his concern. Because he should have known that House needed him, whether he was willing to admit to it or not.

Squaring his shoulders behind the wheel, Wilson resolves that this time, things will be different.


End file.
